Who are any of us?

More than I care to admit, I ask myself who I am. More than I care to admit, I wonder what happened to who I used to be. More than I care to admit, I just don’t have answers.

Before I get too involved, I’m not really sure how people viewed my younger self. I was funny, pretty carefree, athletic, attractive. Though I was in top-level classes throughout school, I’m not sure if other kids considered me smart. Smart ass, yes. I maintained good grades with minimal effort on my own part. I could also pick up any sport with ease, yet was not dedicated to one.

Life events changed me from being a leader throughout elementary school to being more of a follower later on. I just wanted to belong. I wanted to be liked and included.

My anxiety issues began to manifest themselves when I was in high school. I started to become fearful of certain outcomes. I was afraid to go on trips with friends. I thought something catastrophic would happen. In fact one college weekend trip I backed out of lost me two friends. I understood many years later they weren’t really friends. But, oh, how important they were to me then.

I attended many parties, having a great fondness for beer. At some of these parties I wandered off with a boy or two to make out. I always put the brakes on if things got too heavy and I managed to maintain my virtue. In my naïveté it may have earned me a reputation as a tease. In all honesty, I had no idea what I was doing. I just knew what wasn’t going to happen.

By senior year, I’d been dumped by the boy I thought was “the one.” Boy, was I a moron. With college looming I began to become more anxious. I was accepted to a few nice schools but was too afraid to leave home. This was a person I didn’t know. This unease was new to me and frightening. I’d already been through a lot by the time I was seventeen. My father was an alcoholic. Between the ages of 6-15, there’d been domestic violence at my house. From the ages of 10-15, I was the victim of physical and verbal abuse from my brother.

I’d been in a car accident in third grade and sustained a compound fracture of my leg. I was absent a fair amount from school. Years would pass before I would understand it was more emotional than physical. I began to eat as a comfort but because I was active I kept the weight off.

College was the tipping point. I liked the academic part of college. Learning was fun. I hated being a commuter student but I was paying my own way, was too scared to leave home, and had to work when I wasn’t in class. Hanging around with some folks who weren’t right for me, it allowed me to continue to indulge my fondness for beer and to eat in an unhealthy manner. The weight started to add up. I’d given up trying to be athletic except for teaching tennis during the summers, something I really enjoyed.

I’ve made lots of mistakes but I think most of us have. I was too tied to a lifestyle where I acted the way I thought I was supposed to instead of being myself. And now, being myself has become lost to me. The closest I come is writing in this blog but, even then, I’m careful about my words.

Part of my role in life is being a survivor. I don’t seem like I’ve had many cares in the world, but I’ve been through some difficult and dark times. I’m not looking for a prize. I’m looking for me. The one who was quick to grin and laugh. Not the one with the jaded and sarcastic quips. The one who was brave and was the leader. Not the pathetic sheep.

Don’t ask me to fight for your causes. I’ve been left hanging out to dry a few too many times. And if you’re going to be my friend, be my friend. Don’t be my friend as it suits you. I’m done with fair weather friends or people who are my friend until I disagree with them about something. I know I’m not easy. I can be moody. I can be too honest. But if you look past that, I can be so much more.

So, who am I? Not sure yet. I do know I will continue to pursue my dream of being a mystery writer. I’m happy when I’m writing and feel close to my original self.

“Oh, mirror in the sky/What is love?/Can the child in my heart rise above?/Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides?/Can I handle the seasons of my life?” Landslide- Fleetwood Mac

I’m still sailing, navigating the shoals of grief for the loss of a very important person in my life. And for that “one” high school boy, go suck an egg.

Summer senses

Summer is full of a variety of images to me. I live in an area with four distinct seasons and, though summer is never long enough, I still enjoy the seasonal changes. One thing that never changes is the joy-filled memories that thoughts of summer bring.

Things and images I associate with summer: plums, sweet corn, water, laughter, firelight, shimmering heat, just to name a few. The sweet corn and plums may seem an obvious choice. As a child I spent lots of time outside swimming during the summer. Lakes, pools, streams, the ocean comprised my swim choices. Almost always they were accompanied by a picnic lunch. Summer picnic lunches always included plums. Portable, small, and easy to eat, these gems were refreshing on a hot summer afternoon. I grin inwardly when I eat them.

Sweet corn may become its own topic among consumers. I was never a fussy corn eater. If it was fresh from the farm stand, it didn’t matter what variety it was. Our next door neighbor always called my mother when there were fresh peas to be shucked or ears of corn to be husked. I enjoyed helping and would skip next door to get to work. There was always plenty for me to take home for our supper.

Sweet summer laughter never gets old. We few neighborhood kids gathered in the twilight, after dinner, to play. Spirited games of kick the can, Simon says, variations of tag, were played with abandon. Of course those were the days when dogs ran loose and weren’t picked up after. One sultry evening found me racing to hide, during hide and seek, when my heel caught the edge of a pile of dog poo. I did a fast sit and was further humiliated when I realized I was wearing my favorite white shorts.

When I was fourteen or fifteen, a nice pool complex opened in our town. It gave us the opportunity to swim outdoors instead of in one of the school pools. There was an Olympic-sized pool, a smaller diving pool, snack bar, locker rooms, etc. Since my mom usually worked summers to supplement her teaching salary, I needed to ride my bike to get there. That wasn’t a big deal as the park was less than two miles away.

Part of that ride necessitated me bicycling on a highway. It was always a little nerve-wracking to do so and seemed like a long stretch. In reality it was a distance of about a half mile. It always seemed a lonely piece of road, the surrounding scenery was stark with crunchy, overgrown summer weeds. Either shoulder of the road was littered with broken glass, discarded sneakers, flattened soda cans, the usual roadside detritus.

In the near distance the promise of fun sparkled amongst the haze of the heat. On the ride home the heat rose in waves from the pavement, the day’s brilliance reduced to exhaustion. The return trip became a chore though I enjoyed whatever sort of breeze was kicked up by the ride.

Summer music tends to employ a happy vibe. The Beach Boys and Chicago come to mind. “Good Vibrations,” “California Girls,” and “Saturday in the Park” often ruled the airwaves. These mixed with “It’s Too Late,” “The Morning After,” “The Letter,” “O-o-h Child,” “Mama Told Me Not to Come,” “Spill the Wine,” “Brandy (you’re a fine girl),” and oodles of others. These are just a few memories of summers past.

“Summer breeze makes me feel fine/Blowin’ through the jasmine in my mind.” Seals & Crofts

The shimmer of heat.

On the cusp…

Exciting and daunting at the same time, but it’s coming soon. In another two weeks I will be adjusting to a new residence, an amalgamation of my stuff and some of my mom’s stuff. She has transitioned to assisted living and I’m headed around the corner to live in her former house. I really like mine but prefer the more private location of hers.

Though it will be a place with many familiar items, it is a new start for me. It’s just finally my time and I need to treat it that way. For decades I’ve focused on others. Now it’s time for my star to shine. I like structure which is why I thrived as a teacher. Labor Day weekend will be my division between former and current.

Waiting for an editor to become available in a few weeks to get working on my non-fiction book. The draft is done, most of the photos chosen, and lots of small details to put into place. But the bulk of it will be done by then and hopefully printing will be underway.

I look forward to a few book signings and to meet and talk with folks. This is a regional book, a history of an impressive school district, so it will have a limited audience. But it will be circulating and selling. It also means it will be time to me to pursue my dream of writing mystery fiction. Two drafts are in progress but I’ve looked at neither in quite a long time. In addition, I’ve jotted other ideas over the past few years.

Between 2005 and 2015, I attended several reputable mystery-writing conferences. The one thing I learned the most is there is no one way to write fiction. Similar to a well-known advertising slogan – “just do it.” And do it I shall. I must be true to myself.

My other goal is to live a healthier lifestyle. This means I must change some very longtime habits. It also means I need to be kind to myself, a concept that is difficult for me. I’ve spent much of my life living to please others. The end result is others may be pleased but it has left me incomplete and not entirely happy or satisfied with my life. I’ve allowed my interactions with others to define me and in ways, I’m stuck in my own past. I’m unique and do not conform to many of society’s standards.

Don’t get all excited for revelations because there aren’t any. I’m just a bit of an adult tomboy who prefers casual clothing. I’m a single woman who has a definite love/hate relationship with men. I’m still grieving a lost love. I’m enduring lost friendships. In short, I’m kind of starting over (at 63).

As one who has spent most of my life of being frightened to rock the boat, I will be paddling a new boat. My core personality remains – intact sense of humor, gracious manners, respect and concern for others, innate curiosity. But the part I’ve kept immersed for decades is so much sharper and more visible. Though I’ve never been one to champion my own causes, I’ve become very plain spoken and no longer afraid to speak my mind. This causes some issues. Some folks who don’t know me well misunderstand my intent and are quick to criticize. People don’t have to agree but they also do not have the right to diminish my thinking. If you become uncomfortable with something I’ve said, maybe you need to look within. I have. It’s not always an easy thing.

I have an undergraduate degree in English and a graduate degree in secondary English education. To stay I enjoy reading is an understatement. I love words. One neat little poem popped into my head as I began writing this piece. It’s called I Know My Soul and it’s written by Claude McKay. Here is an excerpt, “I need not gloom my days with futile dread,/Because I see a part and not the whole./Contemplating the strange, I’m comforted/By this narcotic thought: I know my soul.”

I do know what’s in my soul. I’ve always known. Few get a glimpse, it’s just the way I am. As usual, I find consolation in the lyrics of songs. One that comes to mind is Tom Petty’s You Don’t Know How It Feels. I was fortunate to see him in concert with his Heartbreakers. “There’s somewhere I gotta go/And you don’t know how it feels/You don’t know how it feels to be me.” Though he talks about rolling another joint over and over in the song, I always thought about drinking another beer. No harm, no foul, just was never into weed.

Sometimes I would ask my students for music recommendations as I’m open to listening to all types of stuff. It helped me to discover some really good music that I wouldn’t have known about. Not a huge rap fan, there is plenty I like. Always had respect for Eminem because he succeeded in an industry that was not destined for his success. In his song Lose Yourself, from the film 8-Mile (semi-autobiographical), he talks about not missing a chance to do what’s important to you. “You only get one shot, do not miss your chance…”. The beginning of the song starts with these words, “Look, if you had one shot or one opportunity/To seize everything you ever wanted in one moment/Would you capture it, or just let it slip?” I’m not going to let it slip this time. I’ve given up too much already.

And there are the moments when emotional release is important. If I need a little encouragement to let my emotions go, I listen to Sarah McLachlan’s In the Arms of an Angel even if it’s been somewhat spoiled with its overuse in an ASPCA commercial. The song is bittersweet and lyrical. It’s hopeful and sad. The clarity of her voice brings an outstanding level of beauty to it. “And the storm keeps on twisting/You keep on building the lies/That you make up for all that you lack.” When one isn’t believing in one’s self, it’s easy to invent your own persona, complete with the qualities of where you think you’re falling short. But there’s recompense as we hear her sing, “You’re in the arms of the angel/May you find some comfort there.” Calming.

Lots to say, thanks for taking the ride. The cusp awaits.

Phoniness vs. Hypocrisy

These concepts seem similar and there is definitely some overlap. On a simple level a phony is one who is insincere or one who is not genuine. What does that mean? It’s a person who tries to pass himself or herself off as something they are not. In most simplistic terms, let’s say it could be a person who may appear to be an expert on a subject when in fact he/she has only superficial knowledge.

Hypocrisy is the concept of “do as I say, not as I do.” One example that comes to mind is a scene from the great teenage book The Outsiders. Some of the “greasers” have saved children from a fire. At the hospital one of the greasers lights up a cigarette and is scolded for smoking by an adult……who is smoking. Pretty simple example, but it’s classic.

The two concepts have a great deal of overlap. There are a great number of psychological studies on each subject. This isn’t a discussion on the psychology of these terms. It’s more of an acknowledgment of the existence of each and some of their effects.

People who are phony are often transparent. This means it’s easy to spot their phoniness. While it may be amusing to observe, it’s also very sad. Is our society to blame? Who knows? Many factors would appear to play into being a phony. Some people have perfected the role in order to get ahead and to be successful. Is “playing the game” part of our lives? It would seem so, to some extent. Why some would say they don’t enjoy playing the game, they might also say it’s necessary at times. Have you found yourself in that position? I have at times.

It brings to mind the book The Catcher in the Rye. The main character, teenaged rich-boy Holden Caulfield, spends his existence railing against the phoniness in the world. What Holden fails to see is that he is also a phony. While trying to find his true self, he”plays the game” and is often deceptive about his identity, his background, and is a pro at telling “white lies.” Holden wants to be an integral part of society, yet his fear keeps him from being genuine.

Fear and insecurity may play large parts in people’s lives. Another example of phoniness and hypocrisy is the main character in The Great Gatsby. Jay Gatsby is rejected early on by a woman he feels is ideal. He vows to win her, whatever it takes. He becomes very wealthy, through illegal means, and still can’t win her. He has failed to understand the concept of old money vs. new money. He is nouveau riche and his intended is a blue blood. They don’t mix and are not equal in the mores of society. More the fool is he. But as much as we see his futile intent, it wouldn’t be a stretch for us to admit some of us have fallen prey to the same concept.

So does that mean if one trumpets his or her horn a little too much that it’s due to insecurity? It’s a possibility. If one has been immersed in a certain style of living for decades, then assumes a different style and touts that as the best while disrespecting the previous style of living, does that make it “Gatsbyesque”? Gatsby thought it would work for him, never recognizing what fueled his fire.

Way too heavy for me to ponder further at this moment. I’m a dedicated suburbanite. The suburb in which I’ve lived for decades began its life as an agrarian bastion. Those few farm families left are struggling to survive. Citizens arguing for more “green space” in town are oblivious to the plight of these farmers trying to maintain their farms. Is there hypocrisy and phoniness among the town? Yes, very much so. It’s always existed and will continue. Does that mean I should become Henry David Thoreau and live a peaceful existence in the woods? I could. Mostly I prefer to be myself and do my own thing and try to avoid the drama.

I tend to be real and speak my mind. So if I call you out on your judgements (hypocrisy), don’t go nuclear on me and criticize my lifestyle. Remember the old adage “when you point your finger at someone, there are three fingers pointing back at you.”

Jumped the tracks…

My last post took on a life of its own. Though I started to write about the overcast weather lately and its parallel to the real world, I distracted myself with humor rather than immersing myself on a deeper level. I couldn’t go there the other day. Tonight I’m able to explore those depths.

Humor does a few things for me: 1) it’s a distraction, 2) it’s a defense mechanism, 3) it’s a genuine emotion of joy. Though I have a healthy sense of humor, I’m not feeling funny at the moment.

I was speaking with one of my friends in the neighborhood today. We were talking about how on edge we’ve been feeling the last few weeks. Others have shared this same discussion with each of us lately. We feel crabby and impatient. For me, I have been feeling a sense of rage on a daily basis. It’s not all consuming, it rears its head a few moments each day.

Part of it is grief for a way of life that is gone forever, thanks to politics and a pandemic. Part of it is grief for someone who was a large part of my life and is no longer. Part of it is that I’m postponing the grieving process because I have too much other stuff on my plate right now to let my emotions run roughshod.

I pray for the rage I feel to subside. I pray for the anger within to calm. I pray to accept the changes in my world. I hope for the ability to recognize peace and solace.

I’ve been listening to different types of music lately to try to let my mind decompress and wander. The song Hurt by Johnny Cash has been running through my subconscious. “I hurt myself today/To see if I still feel/I focus on the pain/The only thing that’s real.” Theoretically this is a song about addiction but it doesn’t have to be. Sometimes I think about so many other things in order not to think about emotionally challenging things. But I know eventually I have to feel the raw pain in order for it to recede.

Pertinent to our present societal woes, I find these lyrics to be prescient. “I look at the world/And I notice it’s turning/While my guitar gently weeps/With every mistake/We must surely be learning/Still my guitar gently weeps.” Perhaps you recognize some of the lyrics from while My Guitar Gently Weeps by the Beatles. Though written by George Harrison in 1968, it seems to be equally meaningful for the current unrest in the world.

Some not so humorous thoughts for now. Trying to work out some frustration and writing often helps. Maybe I will have fewer feelings of rage today with the prediction of a sunny day. That also means I will be able to get into the water and swim. Always a balm to my soul.

Find your own oasis in these difficult times. Return to it often.

Overcast…just a weather thing?

It’s the longest day of the year and it’s overcast here with the promise of rain. Rain is enervating and allows our physical world to replenish. I have many memories of summer rain, both soothing and terrifying and some humorous. Cloudy skies affect my mood, not in a good way. I definitely have a fair weather personality.

Back to all those summers of teaching tennis behind the local middle school with no shelter nearby…except for many large trees. Where do you not go during a storm? Under large trees, right? One had to weigh being soaked to the skin versus being electrocuted. Getting wet is the most desirable outcome for me. What turned into a Keystone Cop episode was the day the heavens opened and it poured rain. We were teaching the younger kids that morning, most of whom arrived by bicycle.

It was 10 a.m. and the air was thick with humidity and gnats. It seemed we could reach up and touch the grey ceiling of clouds. We instructors were twitchy as we knew bad weather was coming. Rain was one thing, lightning was a whole different ballgame. A downpour began in an instant and we knew it was time to “abandon ship.” But we felt responsible for getting the kids safely home. One instructor stayed behind to supervise kids who were waiting for rides. The rest of us set out on our bikes to see the others to their neighborhoods.

Our group looked like an oversized, underaged, bicycle gang. Among tennis rackets, thermoses, bicycles, the pouring rain caused us to have to shout instructions and directions. We made it to the first neighborhood and our group downsized by five kids. That left about twenty kids and three instructors. As we approached the next neighborhood, things got dicey. One side of the group needed to go to the right and one side of the group needed to go to the left. The problem? These factions were flip-flopped within the large group.

The group had slowed considerably due to the intensity of the rain. In slow motion, the two groups within the large group turned toward each other. The left side of the group turned right and the right side turned left. Slow motion bike carnage ensued. I was riding drag so was not knocked down. Ahead of me was a considerable tangle of bikes, bodies all over mostly laughing. It took awhile to untangle bodies, rackets, and bikes. Thankfully there were only minor scrapes and a few disengaged bicycle chains. I still chuckle when I think of it. And never ever have I been that wet since. It was far worse than standing in the shower with one’s clothes on because we were in this driving rain for an extended period of time.

Once home, I stripped off my soaking wet clothes in the back hallway of the house and ran upstairs to the shower. A hot shower was followed by clean and dry clothes. I plunked a can of tomato soup into a pan to heat and carried my rapidly dripping pile of tennis clothes to the washing machine in the basement. After a lunch of a toasted cheese sandwich, along with the tomato soup, the images of what had taken place flashed through my head. I’m still grinning forty five years later.

N.B. This was not at all what I’d intended to write. My fingers seem to have a will of their own. While I laugh about this incident whenever I think of it, at the time it was a bit harrowing. Tennis whites mingled with road rash isn’t a pretty picture. It all worked out, thankfully.

Black and white? Grey?

Grey for me, please. There are times when I marvel at those who think in black and white terms. I’ve just never been one of them. And for any purists out there, grey and gray are somewhat interchangeable. I prefer grey.

I like to believe I’ve always been a person who considers many angles when creating a perception or making a decision. When younger, I made my share of snap decisions, some which weren’t stellar.

One thing I learned through my twenty five years of teaching was to keep an open mind and to be patient while formulating decisions. I learned I could deal fairly with situations, people, subject matter even when my opinion might have been opposite or negative.

I readily admit it’s probably “easy” to be a black and white thinker. Everything’s cut and dry, easy peasy, and clear as a bell. My feeling is it creates a dichotomy of “either/or” thinking and many situations in life are just not able to be measured in that fashion.

For example, as a sibling I did not like to have someone assume I was like my older sibling. We were vastly different individuals. My older sibling loooooved French class and his teacher. I did not particularly enjoy French, though I was a decent student, and when I ended up in that teacher’s class for French IV and she squealed in delight (really, she did) when she made the connection to my sibling. She quickly discovered my lack of enthusiasm and pestered me. It was the only time I ever asked permission to drop a class in high school. Thankfully I was allowed to do so and picked up Spanish. Spanish was fun and I continued it all the way through college.

That incident stuck in my mind as I became a teacher, and I vowed never to have expectations of any sort if I taught siblings. I taught many students over the years who were siblings and I’m happy to say I never had preconceived notions.

Some might argue that living in a grey world makes life more complicated. I’d say it makes my life more informed. I like to reach my own conclusions but am happy to listen to all sorts of viewpoints and opinions. It’s similar to the saying, “Be kind to everyone, you don’t know what they’re going through.” Just because a person is overweight doesn’t mean he or she is lazy. There might be a physical or mental illness, trauma, addiction, or some other reason. Is it possible the person is lazy or slovenly? Yes, it is possible but is not the lone conclusion.

I don’t really know where I’m headed with this, I’ve kind of lost my train of thought. I do grow frustrated with the “just do it” mentality or the “either/or” way of thinking. Grey is a nice blend. It’s not as stark as black and white in my mind. I’d rather a blend of ideas than one or the other. But that’s me and I respect your right to think differently. Just don’t think to impose it on me.

Those golden days…

There was a time in my life when summer was everything to me. As high school morphed into college, summer was the best time. I was lucky to have two great part-time jobs during the summer. One was working at a nursery, the other was teaching tennis. Both were outdoors which was an added benefit.

Those were the days when my bicycle took me everywhere, or my two feet. My mom worked and cared for her elderly mother every afternoon, so if I wanted to go some place I got myself there. It was always understood that it was the way it was.

I only had to ride a few blocks to teach tennis behind the local middle school. In those days we females wore tennis dresses and the guys wore traditional white tennis shorts. We took our job seriously and were excellent instructors. In the afternoons from 1-3, we instructed and coached a community team whose members were mostly high-school aged. During the hot, hot days of summer I returned home a hot, sweaty mess. I could wring my socks and undergarments out. The sweat on my legs would dry as I bicycled home and my dog would lick my legs when I got home. I was a human salt block.

My routine was to clean out my thermos and then to take a shower. What a wonderful feeling it was to wash off the salt and sweat. Donning some clean clothes I would then retire to the screen porch with a good book. I can still smell the faint mildew quality of the chaise lounge when I sat to read. Letting my feet breathe, I always laughed at how startlingly white they were. Feet do not tan when ensconced in wet socks and sneakers all day.

If I close my eyes, it comes back to me all these decades later. Our backyard was lush and populated by shade trees. Birds visited the birdbath with regularity, the small splashes made me smile. On occasion a breeze flitted through. Immersed in a good book, sometimes I dozed off. A day well-spent outdoors indulging in lots of physical activity, late afternoon reading, and the nights were for socializing.

I never made a great deal of money teaching tennis during those summers but between the two jobs, I’d be able to pay for another year of college. I loved those days when I was in shape, tan, and carefree. It’s a shame they couldn’t have lasted longer but those golden memories never fade.

A staged photo
My perennial weapon of choice

Relief or release, call it what you will.

Tomorrow marks two weeks since my best buddy went to Heaven. While I’m cognizant that he is gone, I’m not sure it has truly sunk in. I’ve lost important people in my life, but not one who was so much a part of me. Grief is a process and mine has just begun.

This is coupled with my mom transitioning to assisted living. She’s in her 90s and was able to make the decision for herself. It’s time. I get it. Watching the aging process is hard.

Here’s the real crux of it. Since 1982, I’ve lived with a diagnosis of severe clinical depression and a generalized anxiety disorder. Those two individuals fought through it with me. They were there for the panic attacks, general emotional meltdowns, the mood swings. It’s not easy, I’m not easy, my existence isn’t easy. They overlooked all of that and understood it isn’t who I am because they knew me before it all started.

If you didn’t know me and saw me interact with people, you would have no reason to suspect I had anything wrong. That’s been cultivated over decades and I’ve worked hard to perfect that image. There have been periods of time with dark thoughts. For the most part I know there is no question that I will keep putting one foot in front of the other, even when it feels I’m walking through quicksand.

Mental health issues still carry a stigma. I’m not always comfortable discussing it and people aren’t always comfortable hearing about it. I don’t spend my days consciously thinking that I’m navigating through it. But anxiety is always nibbling at my heels, creating doubt, and exacerbating my atrial fibrillation. My body being in an anxiety-heightened state much of the time is not good for my physical health. I do the best I’m able. I take my meds, I do my counseling. I pray for release.

Don’t I mean relief? No, I mean release. I pray to feel free of this mental health torment. Relief, to me, may be achieved by taking more medicine, taking a nap, or taking a time out. It’s temporary. Release is permanent. Just as a prisoner being released from prison. Or an individual being released from their bonds. Bonds may manifest themselves in a variety of ways.

I’m feeling this is getting to a point of TMI. I’ve said enough for now. I do this on occasion in the hope it may help another person persevere. If I can do just that, my sharing is worth it.

The most effective relief I’ve found is being in the water. I’ve been a swimmer since age 2. The water is such a comforting place for me…except when I was caught in a rip tide in Maine. I float, I feel light, I’m almost at peace. On the other hand I do a lot of vigorous water walking and swim laps. Those activities offer a different type of relief.

In the water, I’m able to slow down, feel less anxious, almost relax. I’m in my element. I’m in control. I’m in my own heaven. The pool in my neighborhood has to work for me for now. I miss my lake rental when I could kayak and glide through the pond lilies and spy on the turtles. It will be in my future again.

For now, one of my favorite tunes will play through my head. “I see my light come shining/From the west down to the east/Any day now, any day now/I shall be released.” This verse has gotten me through many a bad time. It encourages me to keep plodding. This song, “I Shall Be Released,” was written by Bob Dylan and is about prison issues. It has been covered by many musicians but my favorite version is by The Band. Give it a listen. It features Richard Manuel as the lead vocalist and the haunting quality of his voice captures the essence of the song. I have confidence my light will shine.

Loss

A week ago I lost someone very close to me. Not many get into my inner circle. It’s my own protective thing. Over the years I’ve learned that I’m very sensitive, overly so at times. And I’m done apologizing for it. It’s who I am.

Oh yes, loss. I spent many of my formative years without a positive male role model. It was hard. When I started my first part-time job at the beginning of my senior year in high school, that role model emerged. He recognized my intelligence, my rapport with customers, and he accepted me for who I was. I was given increasing amounts of responsibility and though I knew it wasn’t something I wanted to do for the rest of my life, I enjoyed going to work. I learned so much and it fed my curiosity.

This job also enabled me to pay for much of my college education before I had to take any loans. It enabled me to purchase my first junky car. Most of all it taught me responsibility, time management, and that I could believe in myself. My job was kept for me when I was ill with a horrible case of mononucleosis the second half of my freshman year of college. When a full-time worker was out of work for an extended period of time, I slid right into those hours and tailored my full-time class load to accommodate my full-time work hours.

My studies didn’t suffer nor did my work ethic. This individual was there as my sounding board and mentor, answering questions I’d have asked a father if I’d had one in my life. We spent a great deal of time working together and never lacked for conversation though our existences outside of work were very different.

Life changes, and they moved away from the area. It was a sad time for me to lose my friend but I also knew it was part of the life cycle. Time for me to get on with whatever was in store for me. Contact between us grew few and far between for a long period of time. The fact is, I knew there would always be someone at the end of the phone if and when I needed advice or support.

Time passed. One of my other close friends said she’d seen an obituary in her local paper, it was that of my friend’s wife. I felt the sense of loss and wanted to convey my condolences as I was taught to do. Doing some digging, I found a phone number and called. There was no agenda, just a warm conversation.

Eventually we decided to try “dating” or whatever you call it between seasoned adults. We had discussed the significant age difference and the possible reception by his grown kids and their families. I emphasized over and over that he tell them I had my own resources and had no designs on his. By now each of us was lonely in our own ways and it didn’t take much time to reestablish a once-close friendship.

From the start, it was easy to see his family was not going to accept a relationship between the two of us. They were somewhat pleasant to my face but I’m not stupid. I could see what the underlying feelings were. Though he was happy doing things with me, they would never be happy with the situation. It was felt I was treated better than his wife was treated. He was more freely affectionate. Those were his behaviors but I was blamed.

Long story short, I could see it would never work. Many other things factored into this decision but the facts remained I would never be accepted by his family. Only one of them tried to get to know me, as a person. There was never a problem accepting gifts from me, monetary or otherwise. If you don’t like me, why pretend? I’ve always despised that type of phoniness.

I’d spoken to him on the phone the day before he left us. We had a pleasant conversation. And that’s what I will remember. In the time of loss people should treat one another with caring and respect. The final act of adults was to omit me from mention in his obituary. Missing from the friends mentioned was one individual who had shared forty seven years of friendship. It was a blatant act of ill will and jealousy. I will continue to grieve and mourn the loss of my close friend. I will not cherish the memory of much of his family.